


just ignore all those alarm bells

by a financial diuretic (Shame_Account)



Series: i've seen 2 whole episodes of Suits don't ask me how lawyering works [6]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Boss/Employee Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-22
Updated: 2016-04-22
Packaged: 2018-06-03 20:16:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6624712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shame_Account/pseuds/a%20financial%20diuretic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>George opens his mouth to say <em>I could call you a cab</em> and has to shut it again very quickly because what he almost says instead is <em>You could come back to my place</em> and that's –</p><p>Oh. No.</p>
            </blockquote>





	just ignore all those alarm bells

**Author's Note:**

> at last we are emerging on the other side of the ~~war~~ pre-slash

For the first time in several years now, George Washington has had to start leaving his phone on silent. He just wishes it was because clients were calling him at all hours.

He should really tell Alexander Hamilton to stop texting him. And he really doesn't want to think about why he hasn't.

Weekends are the best and the worst of it. In the last two weeks he has seen probably every inch of Alex's apartment in the form of oddly angled and... interestingly captioned snapshots. ( _ **is this not the saddest and tiniest fridge you've ever laid eyes on? i love it**_ // _**this is our possessed shower rod, every**_ _ **5 days**_ _ **or so it falls on one of us, john's been keeping track and it definitely hates me more**_ // _**i**_ _ **am tri-fucking-lingual**_ _ **and i just forgot every word for**_ _ **this thing and called it a DECORATIVE**_ _ **LIGHT BOX help me**_ // If you start texting me in three different languages I am giving up on my phone entirely. Also that's a lamp. // _**thanks**_ _ **,**_ _ **i forget what i wanted to tell you about**_ _ **it**_ _ **but:**_ _ **bonjour je m'appelle**_ _ **alex**_ _ **ander**_ **_y esto es_** _ **jackass *covers peacefully sleeping roommate in post-it notes**_ *)

Weekdays provide a slight reprieve. Most of Alex's focus must honestly be on his work during the day, because the messages slow down to maybe one or two every five minutes, and are mostly about his coworkers. ( _ **lee just asked me to look over a thing for him and he has used the word proconsul instead of co-counsel 7 times how does he still work here**_ // _**can we do one of those terrible corporate retreats that make you do trust falls because i really want to drop jefferson**_ )

So he leaves his phone on silent and checks it every few minutes in case anything important has come up, and there's no harm in reading Alex's messages while he's at it, or in shooting back a reply if one comes to mind.

Alex does not seem at all discouraged by their highly skewed message/reply ratio. George has a feeling that replying any more often than he does would just – jar him, interrupt his train of thought, and who knew where that could lead? Twenty more texts all chasing different points? So he leaves well enough alone.

The messages usually start up again in earnest once Alex gets home, and then there will be a gap that George assumes means he's asleep or badgering his roommate. Not that he can't text while badgering his roommate. ( _ **he's still asleep im gonna draw dicks on the post-it notes**_ // Alex why // _**why not**_ // There are so many reasons)

So he doesn't actually notice that the post-work barrage isn't happening as usual until the third or fourth time that he checks his phone past the point in the day where everyone else generally goes home.

He frowns down at the screen and tries not to wonder or worry. Don't look gift horses in the mouth, right? Just. Ignore all those alarm bells going off in your head and assume everything is fine. Right.

He works until 7 and then talks himself into calling it a night – talks himself into admitting that there isn't anything useful left to do, really, and that he's mostly been staring at his email for the past hour, waiting for replies that aren't going to come until tomorrow if they come at all.

Definitely time to go home. Before thoughts based in concepts like _futility_ and _what the fuck am I doing with my life_ can really take root. He packs up his computer and papers and heads out into the main office –

– and has to clap a hand over his mouth to smother a startled laugh, because Alexander is asleep at his desk.

"Alex," he says quietly, and, when that doesn't work, raps his knuckles on the desk.

Alex sits bolt upright and shoves himself backwards so fast his chair nearly tips over – George grabs the back of it just in time to prevent this. "Easy! Just me." Alex blinks owlishly up at him but makes no move to speak or stand. He mostly looks confused. "You fell asleep," George says, waiting for him to snap out of it. "You're still at work." He cracks a grin. "I wondered why my phone wasn't blowing up."

Alex blinks a few more times and then shakes his head, groans, and clutches the back of his neck. " _Shit_. Sorry, sir, this won't – I didn't even mean to stay late, and then." He gestures helplessly at his laptop. "Let me just save whatever I fell asleep on and then I'll scram so you can lock up."

"Don't worry about it. Just be glad nobody else turned the lights off or I might've walked right past your desk."

Alex is – fidgety and oddly quiet, and George finds himself wondering, unbidden, if that's just how he is on waking up.

Outside, a problem occurs to him. "Uh," he starts, "don't take this the wrong way, but you seem. Extremely out of it, and it's late."

Alex just looks confused. "I. What?"

"I'm asking if it's safe to let you walk home."

At that Alex rocks back on his heels, raises both eyebrows. " _Let_ me walk home, huh?"

George inwardly kicks himself. "You know what I mean."

"Not like there's a lot of choice even if I said no, right?"

And George opens his mouth to say _I could call you a cab_ and has to shut it again very quickly because what he almost says instead is _You could come back to my place_ and that's –

Oh. No. Oh, _fuck_.

"I could walk you home," he says, calmly, while inside the privacy of his own head he starts _screaming_.

Alex frowns. "You live the other way."

"I... I do, yeah."

"So you'd be walking twice as far, even later, alone. No thanks."

Okay, George, you can be a normal person for as long as this interaction lasts. Just. Offer. "I could call you a cab."

"Je suis un cab. I'm good, seriously."

Laugh at the joke, George. "Text me when you get home?"

Alex tilts his head quizzically and George bites back a wince: when, in the past two weeks, has Alex _not_ texted him once he got home?

All Alex says, though, is a quiet "sure thing," and then they both head off.

At home, George forgoes the leftovers in his fridge, cooks a late dinner instead in a partially successful attempt to engage his brain in something that isn't terrifying, leaves his phone on the counter and goes to bed.

* * *

In the morning, Alex has sent him just one text: _**Home safe. See you at work.**_

Nothing new comes in while he's getting ready to leave. Hesitantly, he switches his phone from silent to vibrate, contemplates turning the ringer back on but that feels, somehow, like a recipe for 300 alerts at a crowded street corner.

Alex isn't in yet when he arrives. Which is not worrying, _stop worrying about it_ , _you're always the first one here, you have the fucking_ _ **keys**_ _, get a grip_. He unlocks everything, turns the lights on – Schuyler or Burr will be here soon enough – and then proceeds to his own office before he can let himself make up any excuses to hang around out here and, what, _wait_ for him? _Yeah_ _ **that's**_ _not creepy,_ _ **that's**_ _what this situation needs. For fuck's sake._

So. Work. Easy enough to lose himself in. Easy enough to pretend that's all there is to stress about. He's had email alerts turned off on his phone for months now; it sits silently on his desk and he tries not to think of it as _actively mocking_ him. 

Alex does show up. Of course he shows up, it takes – so much more than whatever the hell is happening here to drive him away from work. George stays in his own office as much as possible and avoids looking at Alex – or at Schuyler – any time he steps out.

A little after 3 in the afternoon, his phone buzzes, and he almost jumps out of his skin.

One message. From Schuyler.

_**If this is you being subtle, you are SO bad at it. Everyone else is assuming you had an argument, which will maybe work for a few days, and then things need to feel normal or they're going to talk. I did warn you.** _

_Nothing happened. Or if anything did, it WAS more like an argument than anything else? I don't know._

_**welcome to hell my friend** _

_Gee thanks._

She doesn't text him again. He gets back to work.

At half past six his phone buzzes again, but it's a few minutes before he can bring himself to actually look at it. When he does, his heart leaps into his throat: Alex.

_**So this might be hypocritical considering the probably noticeable radio silence, but are you gonna hide from me all night?** _

George saves his work. Stands up. Packs his things, takes a deep breath. Forces himself to step calmly into the main office.

Alex is the only one there. Leaning on his desk, staring down at his phone, computer bag slung over one shoulder. George sees this for only a millisecond, because at the sound of his door opening Alex scrambles to stand up straight and shove his phone in his pocket.

For a moment they stand there, frozen. Just looking at each other.

Then Alex offers a crooked smile and says, quietly, "Let me walk you home?"

George swallows. Nods. Clenches his hands, lightly, to keep them from shaking. "To talk," he croaks, and then winces, because that was – horrible. He clears his throat and tries again. "We should... talk."

"Hmm." Alex nods his agreement readily enough, heads backwards towards the exit without taking his eyes off George's face. "Yeah, talking's definitely first on the list."

George follows him, mechanically withdrawing the keys from his pocket. "List?"

"Of things we need to do," Alex says, and grins, and turns off the lights.


End file.
